


Stay Tender

by unseelieCollapsar



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unseelieCollapsar/pseuds/unseelieCollapsar
Summary: Ron has suffered through much worse than you, but that's no reason to hide your hurt from him.
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Reader
Kudos: 5





	Stay Tender

You sit at the table on the edge of your chair, hands clasped between your knees, feet turned in. Dinner, the same old roasted pork and potatoes you can cook with your eyes shut, cools down among stolen silverware. Spoils of war, Ron boasts with a grin each time he grabs a finely wrought fork, and you usually giggle along.

Today, he says nothing — if he does, you don't hear it. The living room is still, or excruciatingly slow, the grandfather clock in the corner ticking by in bouts of three seconds. You're pretty sure you've served two plates; the aroma is overwhelming, yet miles away, as though a humid summer draft carried it from a barbecue down the street. Have you even cooked dinner? You don't recall. Maybe this is the festering stench of charred meat.

Ron rests a knuckle under your chin and tilts your head up to meet his tender gaze.

"What's wrong?"

Despite the yearning ache in your chest, you avert your eyes and set them on a painting he nicked from the Eagle's Nest. Everything in this home reminds you of his war. He's been through worse, you think as you trace a green brush stroke along a German field, so much worse than me. How can you lay one more burden on his shoulders?

"It's stupid," you say, blinking faster.

"Not if it bothers you." He skirts the table to kneel beside you, one hand cupping your cheek as the other rubs the inside of your wrist. "You don't have to talk about it, but don't shut me out. I'll break in."

You can't help an ugly, sniffling chuckle. Shedding his soothing touch, you wipe your palm over your whole face. It's funny, how effortlessly he conquers your fears — as easily as he seizes enemy artillery, if the fellows of the 101st are to be believed. Thank God you're on his side.

"Fine," you breathe like you've emerged from the depths of the ocean, "yeah, yeah, okay. Give me a moment."

He smiles and nods, encouraging you with a light squeeze of your forearm.

"It will sound stupid, though," you say in a tone so low, shoulders so droopy, he has to lean in to hear you. "Compared to Bastogne and all."

"I was there and I still bitch about three snowflakes on our porch, don't I?"

"Yeah, but—" you cut yourself off with a shake of your head. "Just don't make fun of me."

"Of course not."

Inhaling deeply and inly praying, you gather your nerves, your wits, and your memories. Merely two hours ago, an eternity.

"I went out, this afternoon, with Tallulah and — well, you know, the girls. Shopping and whatnot," you babble some redundant non sequiturs, not quite ready to get to the crux of the story yet. "We had a merry time, truly, don't make that face."

He pouts. "It always goes awry with Lula."

"Does not." Offended on her behalf, you tap his shoulder, soon breaking into a grin as you realise his simple remark alleviated the last dregs of worry from your mind. "I should have you apologise to her, you've been slandering the poor broad since she moved in."

"It's not slander, she married Guarnere," he argues with a playful jab of his thumb towards the wedding pictures.

You only wobble your head to and fro like a tired teacher. A moment later, the jocular mood fading, you resume, "Well, whatever you may think of her, we said our goodbyes on excellent terms and I even invited her for Sunday lunch, after mass."

"Since when do we go to mass?"

"She does. Since when do you interrupt me so much?" You say it in a jovial tone, so he only shrugs and smirks in response. "Anyway, yes, we were parting, that's where we were. And then — then a man came up, brushed too close to her, and I saw his hand... saw him reach for her purse — still open from buying the Times, you know the gal — grabbed her wallet, he did, slick as a thief — oh, I suppose he is a thief, in fact."

Pausing for a sharp breath, you let Ron entwine his fingers with yours for reassurance.

"So... So I saw him do, saw the wallet leave her purse — and of course she didn't, because she was looking at me. And I thought I must do something but I didn't know what. It was all so slow, like the dreams where running feels like crawling, and I could see him move away with her wallet. I had to get it back, right? What if he ran away? What if I followed? What if he hit me?"

The echo of panic rises in your chest again, congeals your lungs and stings your eyes. Unbeknownst to you, your voice has dwindled to a jagged mumble. Ron sidles up to you, hip against hip, and cradles you unto his lap in a gentle embrace, fingers carding through your hair, kissing your temple.

A litany of advice, longer than the rules his sergeant drilled into him, runs through his mind, but he doesn't mention a word of it. Right now, you need a different kind of help.

"I was stupid," you say without a tear or hiccup, though your voice sounds far away, listless. Ron tightens his grip on your hunched body. "I got the wallet back. Stepped up to the man, didn't say anything, just grabbed the wallet and gave it back to Lula. He faced me, I... God, I think he'd have liked to strike me. Looked red all over. I was frozen. Then he left, disappeared in the crowd."

Nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck, Ron hums and croons unintelligible sweet nothings until you've stopped quaking. With a sniffle, you try to pull away, straighten up, recover at least the appearance of composure — only to fall back into his arms, clinging to his neck like a lifeline.

"I told you," you murmur, "it's stupid. Nothing even really happened."

"You confronted a thief. Just because you got away without a bruise doesn't mean you weren't in a scary situation. I'm proud of you."

You shake your head. "I don't deserve it. It was so — such a non-event. I barely thought it through, and now I'm overthinking it, and making a mountain out of a molehill, when you were in Europe and you never mention it—"

"No, no," Ron says in a strange hush, cupping your blotchy cheeks in calloused hands. "Don't compare what happened to me and what happened to you. You're not a soldier, okay? You're tender; you get to be hurt by anything. And I get to protect you. As it should be."

He rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, as rich as earth and twice as strong, engulf you in the warm memory of your first kiss, one early autumn evening, among buzzing moths and fireflies. Breathless, you close the distance and press your lips to his. They're chapped, their movements rough, teeth and blood and a promise, grounding you in his love.


End file.
